


maybe it'd mean something

by watfordbird33



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Haircuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22644481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watfordbird33/pseuds/watfordbird33
Summary: What Ginny doesn’t say is that she wants Luna to cut her hair. She wants the soft snick of the scissors to give her goosebumps. She wants Luna’s firm hands on her shorn scalp. She wants Luna to lift and pull the last fiery tresses before they fall away like rain down Ginny’s back.In the end, she doesn’t have to say it.
Relationships: Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	maybe it'd mean something

“I’m going to cut my hair,” Ginny tells Luna.

They’re in front of the restaurant where Ginny works. Every Saturday, Luna comes to do her homework on the bench outside, and Ginny goes on break and sits beside her as she writes. Now, Luna puts down her homework and looks up at Ginny. There’s a line between her brows that Ginny wants to smooth out. There’s a dot of mascara on her cheekbone that Ginny wants to thumb away.

“All of it?” Luna says.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Luna says. She looks back down at her homework, and for a moment Ginny thinks that’s it. She’s both relieved and disappointed. Then Luna looks back up again. She touches Ginny’s face, right on her jaw line, and Ginny forgets her name. “You’ll look pretty,” Luna says. And she smiles. “Prettier.”

What Ginny doesn’t say is that she wants Luna to cut her hair. She wants the soft snick of the scissors to give her goosebumps. She wants Luna’s firm hands on her shorn scalp. She wants Luna to lift and pull the last fiery tresses before they fall away like rain down Ginny’s back.

In the end, she doesn’t have to say it.

“I could cut your hair,” Luna says. It’s a joke, maybe. They’re in the girls’ bathroom at school, the one with the feel-good graffiti and the inaccurate apostrophes, and Luna’s frowning at their dual reflection in the mirror. 

“You could,” Ginny says. She tries to pretend she isn’t blushing. Today Luna is wearing a turtleneck sweater and a cuffed corduroy jacket and boots like a rock star’s. She has long glass earrings catching in her long blond hair. She doesn’t move; she sways and shines. “You could,” Ginny says again. “But you don’t have to.”

“Maybe it’d mean something,” Luna says. 

And she puts on lipstick. One coat, then two. Ginny looks away from the way the lipstick kisses her full mouth. “I could come over today,” Luna says.

“Please,” Ginny says.

Ginny’s mother isn’t home, and her siblings are out, playing frisbee and basketball and attending the meetings of obscure clubs. Ginny takes Luna up to her room, trying to pretend like she isn’t falling apart at the seams.

Luna has brought her own scissors—“hair-cutting scissors,” though Ginny thinks they’re kitchen shears—and when she lays them on the bed, something wrenches in Ginny, hurtling between her stomach and her heart. She closes the door. Luna co-opts Ginny’s phone to play something vague and twittery and French. “Hair-cutting music,” Luna explains, straight-faced. She rolls up her sleeves.

“You’ll need a trash can,” Ginny says.

“Yes,” Luna says, “and you’ll need a cape.” She rolls down her sleeves again and takes off her jacket and swings it around Ginny’s shoulders. It smells so sweetly and strongly of Luna that it’s almost unbearable. 

And then there is the feeling of Luna’s slender hands in Ginny’s hair, lifting and parting and brushing and cutting, snipped lengths falling across Luna’s corduroy jacket and down into the neckline of Ginny’s shirt. There’s the tickling of her own hair across the tops of her breasts, and Luna’s fingers on the back of her neck, and Ginny closes her eyes to dispel the heat that’s surging through her, so full and absolute as to be painful. She almost says something. Almost. But the clock goes on, and the hair-cutting music, and Luna’s scissors and their silver-bright sounds, and Ginny can’t speak. She watches her hair fall away in the mirror until there’s nearly nothing left.

“I’m done,” Luna says.

Ginny opens her eyes.

She looks like someone else. She looks like someone brave. She looks like someone beautiful. Her eyes are huge in her face, her hair endearingly spiky, and Luna was right. Pretty—prettier. 

“I guess you can’t braid it anymore,” Ginny says.

“Well,” Luna says. She sets her scissors down. “Maybe we can find other things to do.”

The first thing Luna does is turn out the light, and then she comes across the room in her bare feet and her sweater and climbs onto Ginny’s lap. She puts her hands up around Ginny’s head where just a few hours ago she could have knotted them into Ginny’s hair, and then she leans forward and kisses the edge of Ginny’s jaw. It’s where she touched Ginny last week. And Ginny can’t help it—she puts her head back, like an animal, like something vulnerable and searching, and Luna kisses hard and quick and eager down the side of Ginny’s neck to her collarbone.

They don’t speak but Ginny gets her hands on Luna’s hips, and then her ass, and then up her back to her bra clasp under her sweater, and Luna breathes like she’s already coming, in hurting little gasps. Ginny undoes the bra clasp. Luna leans back, away from her, and for a second Ginny thinks it’s over, but then Luna’s tugging her to her feet, swinging her around and backing her toward the bed, and she’s on her back amid the pillows with Luna’s hands cupped warm and sure under her breasts.

She’s still wearing Luna’s jacket. And there are locks of hair all around them, like streaks of sunlight in the sheets.


End file.
